The King's Corrodian (11 page)

‘Sandy Munt,’ said the one with the mousy hair and the round face.

‘Sandy Mureson,’ said the one with the jug. One of the landholder’s sons, Gil recognised, accepting a brimming beaker.

‘My name’s Adam Calder,’ said the tow-headed one nearest the fireplace. The other landholder lad and a local voice, Gil thought, perhaps from somewhere over into Angus like Rattray himself. ‘That’s a fine wolfhound, maister. Is he a good hunter?’

‘Never mind that the now, Adam. I’m Patey Simpson,’ said the last, a lean young man with a Fife accent. He pushed dark hair out of his eyes. ‘What d’you want wi us, maister? Is it about Andrew? He was our freen, we’d no ha hairmed him.’

‘It’s about Andrew,’ Gil agreed. ‘If it was none o you, then who was it? Somebody slew him, and then set fire to the infirmary to hide it.’

‘Oh!’ said Munt. ‘You mean, so they’d think it was the same as what happened to—’ He gestured over his shoulder in the general direction of the corrodian’s house.

‘Wasn’t it the same?’ said Calder, staring in surprise. ‘I thocht it was.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Gil agreed. ‘So I need Andrew’s friends to tell me about him. What was he like? Who did he get across? Did he have any enemies?’

They looked at one another, and shook their heads blankly.

‘He was a member o the community,’ offered Calder. ‘One o the limbs, like it says in the Epistle.’

‘He was just ordinar,’ said Munt.

‘Och, Sandy, he wasny!’ contradicted Mureson. ‘He was away the best scholar o the five o us, for one thing. But no made up wi it,’ he assured Gil. ‘He’d as like to help any o us wi learning by rote, or debating questions, or rhyming Our Lady.’

‘He was right good at that,’ said Simpson.

‘I’m no,’ said Calder. ‘I canny do the rhymes. Andrew was helping me.’

Gil nodded. He knew of the Dominican leisure occupation of composing impromptu rhymes to the Mother of God, hailing her in gilded terms and capping each other’s efforts.

‘So he was a good fellow, then?’ he asked.

‘He was,’ said Munt, his round face distressed. ‘It’s – I canny believe he’s dead. He’s no been wi us for a few days, right, no since Faither Prior put him away, but it’s like he’ll be back as soon as, as soon as—’ He stopped abruptly, and hid his face in his beaker.

‘I think you were in the infirmary last night,’ Gil said. ‘Complaining o the rheum?’

‘Sandy, you never!’ said Mureson.

‘We were forbidden,’ said Calder in disapproval. ‘All the limbs ought to obey the head, St Paul says it. You’ll ha to confess that.’

Munt emerged, reddening.

‘Aye,’ he admitted to Mureson, ignoring Calder. ‘I’d a daft notion, I thought – I thought maybe I’d get a word wi Andrew, so I went when Brother Euan wasny there, but Faither James kept a good eye on me just the same. He gied me a couple o cherry pastilles, mind, but I had to thank him and leave. No chance o nipping along to where Andrew was.’

‘He’d no ha spoken to you,’ said Mureson. ‘No if he was ordered to keep solitary. He’s – he was like that.’

‘Very proper behaved,’ confirmed Calder. ‘Which was why—’

‘He’d his moments, mind you,’ Simpson interrupted. ‘Wi hair that colour, ye ken, maister. He’d his moments. But we’d leave him be, and he’d come round again in no time.’

‘He’d words now-and-now wi Sandy Raitts,’ said Munt, ‘but so does all of us. Even Faither Henry crosses him. Even Faither Prior crosses him, it’s that easy.’

‘Were you surprised when Andrew confessed to causing Pollock’s disappearance?’

‘Oh, that was a right tirravee!’ said Simpson. The others nodded.

‘He’d no been right for a day or two,’ said Munt. ‘Brooding a bit, like, and no joining in the crack. We’re no supposed to sit and chatter,’ he confided unnecessarily, ‘but if you ken where’s out of the wind and out of hearing – anyway, the last few days he was wi us Andrew wasny for joining in, just hung about at the edge o things.’

‘Looking like someone stole his bannock,’ offered Simpson. ‘We asked him what was the matter, but he wasny for telling us.’

‘How long had he been like that?’ Gil asked carefully, setting his beaker down for the dog to finish the last inch or so of ale.

‘Och, a day or two,’ Munt repeated.

‘So before the corrodian disappeared?’

They looked at one another again.

‘That’s right,’ said Munt after a moment. ‘Before Pollock vanished.’

‘No idea what was wrong? Word from home, discipline from your superiors, that sort o thing?’

‘Nothing like that,’ said Mureson.

‘He’s – he’d no kin,’ said Munt, ‘that he ever mentioned. Parents deid a year or two, afore he was ever tonsured, by what he said. Nor he never spoke o his home or where it was.’

Simpson said, ‘Well—’

Gil raised his eyebrows, and the young man went on, ‘I saw him speaking wi Pollock, ae time. It was after that he was kinda mumpish.’

‘Wi Pollock?’ said Munt. ‘Where?’

‘Here in the guest yard.’

‘He should never ha been out here,’ said Calder in shocked tones.

‘Aye,’ said Simpson shortly. ‘They were …’ he paused, considering his words. ‘It didny look friendly.’

‘When was this, Patey?’ asked Mureson.

‘That should ha been told to Faither Henry,’ pursued Calder, ‘or even to the Chapter o Faults.’

Ignoring this, Simpson thought deeply, counting on his fingers as he did so, and finally said, ‘Three days afore the man Pollock vanished. Aye, that would be right.’

‘Can you describe it?’ Gil asked. ‘Where were they? Where were you, to catch sight o them?’

‘I was passing the slype,’ said Simpson, ‘and I looked down it, see, the way you aye do, in case there’s anything from the outside to be seen out here.’

Gil nodded, recalling his own enclosed years at the college in Glasgow, where the youngest students were not allowed out into the town without express permission.

‘And here was Andrew, maybe ten paces from the end o the slype, head to head wi Pollock. He was kinna,’ Simpson pondered, searching for a word, ‘braced, like. I could see his fists ahint his back, man, and I could tell he was trying gey hard no to haul off and strike the fellow. Then Pollock grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, and Andrew took a step back, and I heard him say,
I’ll see you in Hell first
. Then he turned away, and I moved on quick for fear he found me watching him.’

‘You heard no more?’ Gil asked. ‘It’s no longer spreading gossip, you understand, it’s giving me information that might lead me to discern what happened.’

‘Aye, I see that,’ said Simpson. Munt was hiding dismay, not very well, Calder was frowning; Mureson simply looked serious. ‘But I’m no right sure I heard what I heard, if you ken what I’m saying. Maybe it was from afore he professed,’ he said, brightening. ‘Aye, maybe that – for there’s naeb’dy like Pollock for digging in a fellow’s past. The Deil kens how he learned the most o’t. He was at me about a book missing fro the library at St Andrews.’

‘Was he?’ said Munt. ‘What did you say to him about it, Patey?’

‘Tellt him it was confessed and paid for, and my faither beat me for it and all. And Faither Prior kent all about it, for it was him that confessed me for it when it was lost. Wasny my fault, even,’ he added sourly. ‘How was I to ken that fleabag o a dog would take a fancy to the thing?’

‘That’s bad,’ said Calder. ‘That’s a sin, to destroy a book. Brother Sandy would be angry if he kent it, and no wonder.’

‘Brother Sandy’s aye angry,’ observed Simpson.

‘He was on at everyone, Pollock was,’ said Munt. ‘I seen him talking to Sandy Raitts one time, making signs wi his hands, smirking the way he did, and Sandy shaking wi passion. And Tammas Wilson, and even the Infirmarer once.’

‘Sandy, that’s gossip,’ said Mureson in warning tones, and his friend subsided.

‘So what did you hear?’ Gil asked. ‘What did Pollock say to Andrew?’

‘That’s just it. I’m no right sure I heard it,’ said Simpson, going red. ‘But I thought he mentioned a lassie. No by name. It was
I’m sure she wouldny like
– something or other. And Faither Prior was mentioned. But he didny have a lassie, did he?’

‘No Andrew,’ said Munt firmly. ‘He’s,’ he swallowed, ‘he
was
away too serious about all this.’ He gestured at his novice’s habit. ‘Now me, I’ve no objection if some lassie wants me to help her bring in the May
in nomine Domini
, but Andrew would never even ha noticed if he was asked.’

‘Sandy,’ said Mureson again. ‘That’s unbecoming.’

Munt looked away, rather uncomfortable.

‘Aye, I suppose,’ he muttered. ‘But all the same.’

‘Andrew hadny a lassie,’ said Simpson. ‘Unless it was from away back.’

‘He did and all,’ said Calder darkly. ‘He went out into the town, regular, and he wasny drinking, for he never smelled o drink. Must ha been a lassie.’

‘Into the town?’ Gil queried. ‘How do you ken that?’

‘I seen him go a few times,’ said Calder, blue eyes very round. ‘See, my cell’s opposite his in the dorter,’ he explained, ‘and whiles it takes me a good bit to drop asleep. I seen him go out, after Compline when he thought all was quiet and Faither John was snoring. And one time I followed him, to see what he was at, for he was gone far too long for it to be a call of nature,’ he went on primly, ‘and he went out across the yard here and out by the barns and through the wee postern there, and right out the house. I turned back, no wishing Brither Porter to see me, but I taxed him wi’t – Andrew, I mean – the next day, and he made believe I was dreaming.’

‘Maybe you were,’ said Mureson.

‘I wasny!’ said Calder indignantly. ‘I ken what I saw, and for one that pretended he was the maist devout o all o us it was no way to carry on, I tell you.’

‘He never pretended that,’ said Munt. ‘He was a good fellow, aye ready to help. You said yoursel he helped you wi the rhyming.’

‘That was afore.’ Calder poked with his foot at the ashes fallen out of the fire. ‘It doesny do, I tell you. We’re a limbs o the one body, and for one o the limbs to be rotten, well, it poisons the whole. I waited for Faither Prior to deal wi’t, but he never.’

‘Och, you and your limbs,’ said Simpson tolerantly. ‘Leave it, Adam.’

Gil had drawn breath for another question when Socrates scrambled to his feet, ears pricked. There was a commotion outside the building, beyond the heavy door of the guest hall, with much bustle and shouting and a familiar yapping.

‘That’s my lord Bishop,’ said Mureson.

‘The Bishop?’ Gil rose, just before quick footsteps heralded Nory, raindrops spangling his plaid and bonnet, his hands red and raw with cold.

‘You’re asked for, maister,’ he said, and patted Socrates, fending him from the door. ‘Bishop Brown’s here, wanting to hear all.’

‘We’ll be wanted and all,’ said Munt with regret, and tossed off the last of his ale.

‘If any of you,’ said Gil, rising, ‘thinks of anything else that might aid me, come and tell me as soon as you can. And my thanks for this.’ He looked from one to another of the four. ‘It’s hard to lose a classmate, I ken that mysel, but keep in mind Andrew had been shriven no so long afore, and he was dead by the time the fire took him.’

‘And he’s likely under Our Lady’s cloak now,’ said Simpson. The others nodded, and all four crossed themselves, and followed Gil to the door.

‘You’ll no go afore the Bishop like that, maister,’ said Nory, capturing him. Quick expert gestures with the chilled hands straightened Gil’s garments, brushed ash from a sleeve, altered the set of his short gown. Three of the young men slipped past with a murmured word, but Mureson said softly by Gil’s ear, ‘I’ll come back later, maister.’

Gil nodded, without speaking, and the young man followed his fellows. Nory stood back and surveyed his master critically.

‘Aye, you’ll do,’ he said. ‘I’ll attend you, will I, seeing that Ersche gomeril’s away up the town?’

‘You’ll stay here and warm yoursel,’ Gil said. ‘I’ll tell all over the supper, never fear.’

The guest-hall yard was full of the Bishop’s men. Pausing to offer them room by the fire alongside Nory, Gil made for the Prior’s chamber, where he found the Prior himself, the subprior and Maister Gregor, all facing Bishop Brown in full flow.

‘I couldny credit your letter!’ the Bishop was saying as Gil entered. ‘Who would do sic a thing? Surely it’s been someone got over the wall, maybe to steal—’

‘What do we have to steal, Georgie?’ said Prior Boyd wearily. ‘I’d as soon believe it was someone from the outside, but it’s no the answer.’

‘One of your community?’ said Brown in disbelief. ‘I’ve aye admired the fellowship, the brotherhood, in this house.’ Jerome, on his lap, growled at Socrates and he tapped the animal’s muzzle. ‘Bad dog! Quiet! But how? Why?’

Boyd turned to Gil.

‘What have you discerned this far, Gilbert?’ he asked in Latin.

‘Little enough,’ said Gil in Scots. He summarised most of what he had learned, making some judicious omissions. The two Dominicans heard him out in impassive silence, Bishop Brown in increasing distress, Maister Gregor with little bleats of disbelief and shock.

‘Och, there must be some mistake!’ he said before his master could comment. ‘You canny have it right, Maister Cunningham, it’s surely been some terrible accident!’

Jerome growled again. Socrates, by Gil’s knee, turned his head away.

‘Rob, you’re a fool,’ said the Bishop. ‘The laddie’s throat was cut. That’s no accident.’

‘Aye, but their skin splits wi the roasting,’ argued Maister Gregor. ‘You mind, after Monzievaird, burying all those Murrays, how they—’

‘Aye, where it’s stretched. On the brow and the elbows and the like. No under the jaw.’ Brown turned to Gil. ‘What like kind o weapon, would you think?’

Gil shook his head.

‘No way o saying, sir. A knife, for certain, and no a penknife. It was done wi one cut. It seems possible it was this missing kitchen knife – a boning knife Brother Augustine calls it – which hasny turned up yet, but beyond that …’ He shrugged.

‘Hmm.’ The Bishop frowned. ‘It’s a bad business, Davie. A Chapter o Faults, maybe?’

The subprior nodded, silent in the corner, but David Boyd raised his chin and said, with a nip of frost in his tone, ‘That’s an internal matter, Georgie, and I’m still Prior o this house. I’ve already convened a Chapter of Faults for this evening, after supper and afore Compline. The break in the routine ought to shake the brothers, maybe shake loose something we need to hear.’